Dean is sitting in the Impala on the side the road in some little nowhere town in Virginia. It's not a busy road, but the wind from passing vehicles occasionally rocks the car. He has his cell phone cradled between his right shoulder and ear while he is holding a paper towel to the still seeping scratch on his left arm.
"Listen Garth, the damn thing is only about an inch long and is no deeper than a paper cut, but it won't stop bleeding and it hasn't stopped burning since it happened. I'm telling you the blade is cursed."
Dean listened to the muffled voice coming out of his cell phone.
"I've flipped through the journal. That's why I called you. The only thing I've got is a picture of a similar blade with two words written underneath; 'ask Wilson.' I need to know if you know who or what Wilson may be. Call me back."
Dean clutched the paper towel tighter to his arm and cursed the mad man that had scratched him with it. Dean hated when he had to go out on jobs with no back-up, but this job had seemed pretty straight forward. Dean was unharmed except for this scratch on his forearm.
Shortly after Dean applied a fresh paper towel to his arm, his cell phone began to play Foxy Lady. That was Garth's ring tone; a joke that no one ever seemed to get.
"Please tell me you've got something." Dean said into his phone.
Dean listened as Garth explained that Wilson was some sort of knife collector and expert. He communicated by e-mail and text only and didn't meet anyone face to face. Garth gave Dean a cell phone number to try and apologized for not being able to help more.
Dean called the number which went straight to voice mail. "Uh, Hello. Look man, um. This is Dean Winchester. Garth gave me your number, and I could really use your help. I, uh, I have this cut on my arm that won't stop bleeding or burning. Um. This may sound weird, but the knife that made it may be cursed." Dean felt stupid leaving voice messages to strangers. "Anyway, if you could call me back, I would appreciate it."
Dean closed his phone and wondered if his arm was going to shrivel up and fall off.
Dean's phone made its 'you have a text message' alert noise, and Dean flipped it open. The message was short and simple. An address was followed by "bring the knife." Dean thought it was good luck that the address was in Richmond, VA. A two hour drive should get him there. With luck, Saturday afternoon traffic would be light.
ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ
Dean pulled into the u shaped gravel drive of a large cinderblock, industrial building. He really hoped this was the right place. There were no cars out front, although Dean had seen a couple of junkers behind a chain link fence that surrounded the property.
Razor wire loops topped the fence and gleamed in the setting sun. A couple of feral cats ran out from under a rusty flatbed trailer and under the chain-link fence when Dean opened the door of his car. The most remarkable thing about the building was the rebar cages welded inside the two windows that he could see and the large grid made of rebar that was protecting the heavy steel front door. Someone really didn't want anyone or anything getting in.
Dean climbed out of the Impala and started toward the front door. A bright light beside the door and several spotlights clicked on just as the sun finally set. Dean approached the front door and stuck his hand into the six inch grid made by the rebar cage. He knocked twice.
There was no response and Dean began to look around at the building. He could spot several security cameras, one of which moved to track his movements. Dean raised his hand and waved at the camera.
Just as Dean was going to knock again, the steel door behind the rebar cracked open. A shadowy figure in a large, black hooded sweatshirt and loose jeans stood just inside the door. His face was shrouded in darkness, but dean could just make out the tip of a nose and a mouth. The left side of the mouth was pulled upwards into a smirk by a scar starting in its corner.
A voice that sounded like someone whispering around a throat full of gravel asked, "What do you want?"
Dean gave his best friendly smile. It was difficult to turn on his full charm because he couldn't see the man's eyes. "Are you Wilson?" Dean asked. The other man barely twitched. "I'm Dean. I called about a small problem I'm having." When he got no response, Dean held out his left forearm which he had wrapped in gauze.
"I have this cut." Dean began to explain, but the man backed away from the door into the inky blackness beyond. He returned moments later with a copper bowl that he held against his side of the rebar barrier.
"Knife." The man growled and tapped the inside of the bowl with one finger.
OK. Dean wasn't 100% sure giving up the knife was a good idea, so he asked, "Can I come in?"
The small hooded figure just tapped the bowl again, without saying a word.
Dean shrugged and pulled the knife from inside his overshirt pocket. He eased it through the rebar and placed it into the copper bowl. As soon as he released the knife he began to feel dizzy. He got the feeling that he should not be separated from the blade. He wanted to reach through the cage bars and grab it back.
Wilson pulled the bowl away from the door and peered closely into it before he grunted. "Morning."
Dean assumed that he was being told to return in the morning. He really didn't want to walk away and thought he would just spend the night in the back seat of the Impala. He had not made it four steps from the door when he collapsed onto the ground. Moments before blacking out, Dean heard the cage door open and a rough voice mutter, "Fuck."